


A Thousand Words

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is a photography student working at a big company as an intern over the summer and, due to convoluted circumstances, winds up doing a photoshoot for pop sensation Harry Styles. Not exactly what Louis considers ideal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Photography AU which I wrote after it was requested one was written for the gif you can find here (http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4chmjsQjF1rvy8jeo2_250.gif). And as such, it is dedicated as a VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRESENT FOR THE LOVELY MARY. Oh, and, so that I could get it posted before her birthday actually finished, it's completely un-beta'd (although thankyou my lovely Bella for reading the first ~2/3 of it for me). Um yup cool. (oh and excuse my utter lack of knowledge regarding photography and photoshoots etc etc it is blatantly made up/attempted to be translated from my knowledge on painting so yh...)

_Ugh they could at least get some decent tea in this joint._

Louis glared at the clear liquid in his mug with distaste, as if it was causing him a personal offence. It wasn’t as if it was the first time he had experienced the poor excuse of a beverage which the office staffroom stocked, yet every morning for the past not-quite-two months, Louis had continued to hope that, this time, it might have finally become drinkable without grimacing. He wasn’t quite sure how it would have undergone such a fantastic transition overnight, but it gave him somewhere for his mind to wander during the morning briefing.

He was just considering the possibility of a sprinkling of cyanide dramatically improving the taste when he was jolted back into concentration by the mention of his own name.

“Erm, I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”

The entire conference table had turned around to look at him, and the emotions ranged from frustration to exasperation to disbelief; none of them gave Louis much of an insight into the reason for Mr Cowell to have actually spoken to him – the lowly summer intern perched in the corner of the room, feet tucked under him on his office chair, slowly spinning himself left then right as he sipped at his godawful cup of tea.

“You, Mr Tomlinson, will be taking on the Styles spread photo shoot this afternoon for the TeenGirl account.”

Louis tried not to flinch too obviously as his hand slipped slightly and some of the still-scalding tea splashed onto his burgundy jeans. As it was, he couldn’t prevent the way his jaw dropped for the moment before he physically shook himself and squeaked out a surprised “Me?”

Louis had been offered a much-envied internship in the photography department of SyCo over the summer break – the world-renowned advertising company – after being placed at the top of his class in his second year at university majoring in said specialty. It had been…different, Louis supposed. He had known going into it that the place of SyCo’s work was far more set in the media and what sells rather than in artistic style and  _that_  sort of creativity, but he had figured that it would still be a valuable learning experience, and look brilliant on his resume if nothing else.

In truth it had been pretty boring for the most part. As an intern, he mostly sat around watching and fetching coffee for the first few weeks. Since then, he had slowly been allowed to help out on smaller accounts; he would get to take some photos of inanimate products which had already been elaborately set up; or very occasionally offer opinions on the direction and style when preparing a mock-up for an upcoming shoot.

He had never been trusted to take charge of a shoot unsupervised. Let alone the  _Harry Styles_ spread for TeenGirl magazine, who were doing both a cover piece and a four-page spread on the young popstar who had shot to fame in the past six months.

Mr Cowell’s expression now seemed to be place him in the group of the exasperated (which Louis was perfectly okay with – he had seen him pissed off before, and it was an emotion Louis  _definitely_ didn’t want directed his way). Louis had barely seen Mr Cowell around the office up until then; usually Paul looked after the photography department, but this morning Mr Cowell had turned up to run the daily briefing, to everyone’s surprise.

“Yes, Tomlinson, you. Believe me when I say I wish that it hadn’t worked out this way. But since apparently I can’t expect Cardle to work with pneumonia, and since Calder’s swamped with the Gillette account and Grimshaw can’t get back from New York ‘til Monday, you’re it. Otherwise we can’t get the rush copies over to the TeenGirl offices before the weekend. And we can’t have them moving their contract elsewhere, can we?”

“Uh…no, sir. Definitely not.”

“Exactly. Styles will be arriving at 11 for prep, and the shoot will start at 1. I’ll have Danielle give you the details and go over the spread with you after this.”

“O-okay.” Louis’ mind was still firing blanks, barely able to retain enough information for simple responses. Thank god he’d be getting the brief later, hopefully in note form.

Mr Cowell started to rifle through his papers, finding the next point on the agenda. But he looked up once more in Louis’ direction before he moved on.

“And Louis?” his voice wasn’t as grim as it had been up until then, but Louis wasn’t sure what it was which edged his tone now (although he was fairly preoccupied by the fact that  _Simon Cowell_  knew his name), “Consider this your final assessment of your performance for your internship. The one which I will consider when making my recommendations at the end of your time here. Don’t screw this up.”

Louis’ voice was small when he replied, but it was steady and clear.

“No sir.”

***

Louis really didn’t want to do this shoot.

It was a ridiculously good opportunity for him to show his skill and worth to the company. And as big a step as this shoot was, Louis knew he could do it. Danielle had taken him through Cardle’s plan for the feature spread, through the different costume changes Styles would have and which matched which set of props. There had been explicit instructions passed on from Mr Cowell when he caught Louis on the way out of the morning meeting, stating that Louis should work within the guide already set and to keep it simple.

“I’ve seen some of your work, Mr Tomlinson. You have an eye for photography, for capturing a glimpse of something usually passed over. It’s good work, that’s why I recommended you receive the internship. But that is not what TeenGirl is about. I want colour, I want youth and I want fun. Got it?”

And that was the thing really. Louis did get it. And he hated it.

Because the work which Louis did for  _himself_ , for no one else (and yes he had to do it for his course but it wasn’t the same as this); the work which he slaved over for hours sometimes just to find that perfect colouring which completely changed the meaning of an entire piece – that was art. It was what he was passionate about; capturing life. And often life was just this side of gritty – drained and worn and surrounded by a prison of city skylines. But, still, the most stubbornly vivid of colours, the spirit which made Louis smile despite himself, would continue to shine through, quiet and unspoken and true.

And it was the complete opposite of what he had been asked to do today. Today he had been asked to do fun. And Louis knew what that really meant. It meant dumb.

Louis knew what was expected of him. He knew that he could do it. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

And it definitely didn’t mean he had to like Harry goddamn popstar Styles.

***

Harry Styles had shot to fame from nowhere in the past six months or so, having been the sole member of his band deemed good enough to progress through to the main competition of the most recent season of The X-Factor.

He was young at barely eighteen, and pretty, with a head of curls and a wide easy smile. Louis supposed he had set of lungs on him as well, having been signed onto a record contract as soon as the show ended, even though (Louis noted derisively) he’d only placed third in the competition.

He was a teenage girl’s dream boy, fresh off a reality show where he had been portrayed to be a normal teenaged lad, almost within their reach.

Louis couldn’t stand him.

Harry Styles was the human form which encompassed all the fakery and two-dimensional crap that the media and SyCo and  _this shoot_ was about, and Louis had to force a smile onto his face as he looked up from his notes at ten to one to see a lanky figure lope into the studio, shaking his curls stupidly so that they returned to lie almost precisely in his vision as they did the second beforehand.

“Louis Tomlinson,” Louis introduced himself with an extended hand as he walked up to meet the popstar.

“Harry Styles,” was the answer, as if Louis wouldn’t know. His handshake was firm, sure, and his hand almost dwarfed Louis’, “Are you the photographer, then?”

Louis had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. What did he look like exactly, camera hung around his neck and literally the only person in the room (seeing as apparently both of the assistants Louis had been given had chosen that moment to disappear off of the face of the earth)?

“I am. Problem?”

Styles chuckled slightly and ran his fingers through his hair, embarrassed with any luck. He grinned at Louis though when he met his eyes again, a shocking shade of green. “Na. Just checking. You seem awful young compared to most of the guys I see at things like this.”

Louis didn’t miss the dimple which appeared in one cheek as Harry Styles smiled. Good lord, it was like the kid had been created from a tween girl’s wish list. He quirked an eyebrow at the offensive subject and pointed out – giving Harry a quick look up and down - “I could say the same about you.”

The bark of laughter which erupted from Styles was completely unexpected, and Louis couldn’t help but join him for a moment before he remembered himself. When Styles had composed himself to a low chortle, he responded with a “Touche,” accompanied by a hand squeezing Louis’ shoulder and sparkling eyes.

Louis’ own lips were still turned up into a smirk of their own, and it took a second before he disengaged himself and spun on his feet to walk back to his equipment, to attach his camera to the tripod in preparation for the first set up.

_Huh_.

He had to clear his throat with a quick cough into his fist before he could meet Styles’ gaze again.

“Right. So. Best we get started, yeah?” Louis kept his voice carefully neutral, and he tried not to notice the slight falter in Harry’s expression, before he nodded jerkily.

“Yeah, right, yeah. Um, so where do you want me then?” His speech was so choppy and yet drawn out, it took forever for him to get the sentence out, and Louis only hoped he was able to sing faster than that. Actually, he didn’t really care about his singing, but he hoped he could  _move_  faster than that if Louis was going to have any chance of getting all the shots he needed before five p.m.

All the preparation Louis had done in the past few hours seemed to have completely deserted him in that moment so he consulted the notes Cardle had left. Styles was dressed in simple block colours – white tee, navy blazer and ridiculously tight black jeans (Louis tried not to think how hypocritical he may or may not have been being). Good, that matched up with the props he had already placed on the set; the day’s theme was going to be ‘fun’, so they would be embracing the child-like energy which Louis didn’t imagine would be a stretch for Styles.

“Just go to the middle of the set – they told you you’re basically going to be mucking ‘bout with a load of toys today right? – if you could cram yourself into that racing car for a start off then that’d be fab,” Louis waved in the direction of the bright red vehicle - which was clearly made for someone half the height of the popstar who moved to try and fold himself into it, silent and obedient – without making eye contact with him again.

Louis felt something suspiciously akin to guilt stab at his chest as he caught the slight deflation in Styles’ shoulders from the corner of his eye as he busied himself setting up the shot and the lad awaited further instructions.  _Fuck it,_  Louis mentally kicked himself, _he has no right to be such a bloody kitten_. He really did look a wounded kitten, sitting forlornly as though he’d been shut outside in the rain without any idea what he’d done wrong.

He sighed, and plastered a smile on his face.

“Y’alright, Harry? About ready to go?” Louis tries to inject some concern into his voice, and he shouldn’t have been so surprised when he realised that it was already there, “Look, sorry if I’m a little…short with you. Just between you and me, this is sort of my first proper shoot like, and I’m just about messing myself to be honest.”

Styles looked up at him warily, as if trying to gauge the truth in Louis’ response. And he apparently approved of whatever he saw there (Louis couldn’t help but think that that was probably because, as he said the words, he recognised just how true they were, things he hadn’t even let himself think, instead hiding behind layers of derision), because a small but genuine smile lit tweaked up the corners of his mouth, lighting his entire face.

And with that, they began.

***

He was surprisingly easy to work with, although Louis supposed it had something to do with lots of practice in a very short space of time, what with his face plastering every second cover at the local newsagents at the moment. He took direction well, and since Louis was slowly gathering that this teen idol was in actual fact a ginormous goofball, and since the main direction for this shoot came down to ‘act like a huge dork’, it seemed to come naturally.

And the more that Harry relaxed and Louis stopped being a twat about it all, the more they both seemed to enjoy the experience. Louis wasn’t sure just how many shots from the first block they would actually end up using – both of them were still a little bit awkward, a little unsure about how exactly to treat and react to the other. But at some point between that and when Harry was pelting Louis with Nerf bullets (which Louis thought was highly unfair because he was having to simultaneously hold a gun  _and_  a camera  _and_  attempt to use both), they both started to have  _fun_  with it.

Louis wasn’t sure if that was what Mr Cowell had intended for the shoot all along, or if the way he’d gone just a little off book with his shots would be reprimanded come Monday, but it felt like this was actually working. The smile on Harry’s face was genuine and cheek-splitting now, and there was no doubt in Louis’ mind that it would convey well onto film. And for Louis’ part, he was actually enjoying what he was doing.

He had technically followed the rules – he had been instructed to make it colourful, youthful, fun – there was no way this shoot wouldn’t be that. But he had also given up on trying to be completely straight-laced about it all. Of course, there were some classic shots, some which none of Louis’ superiors could find fault with, as they were seen in every single one of their past shoots. However, probably about the same time the Nerf guns appeared, Louis found that belief in himself that had shrunk away under Mr Cowell’s stern gaze. He wasn’t exactly taking action shots as such, but the shutter speed was high, and it was almost like shooting from the hip – Louis spent more time trusting his instinct and goading Harry on than staring into the viewfinder and making sure the shot was perfect. He encouraged Harry to use up more of the space, to rush the camera and see what came out. He played with angles  _and_  with Harry. The shots were clean and Louis was sure they could be tidied to meet the magazines expectations, but they were also energetic. They had the spirit which Louis had been convinced he would have to forgo.

And he couldn’t help but sneak in a few of his own shots as well – shots which wouldn’t be included in the spread because they were unclean, or off-set, or simply not fitting the criteria set for him. Shots which made Louis smile softly as he  _did_ focus on the image being captured by his camera, silent and unprompted and in a moment of calm.

These were Louis’ rebellions.

***

Before he knew it, the clock was approaching five, and Louis was giving a cursory glance over what he had taken from the final arrangement (Harry on yet another miniaturised mode of transport – this time a tricycle; there were a couple very blurred and unintentional photos amongst them from where Harry had,  _somehow_ , managed to ride over Louis’ foot) to make sure he hadn’t missed anything obvious. He could see Harry scuffing his feet and generally looking useless nearby – presumably waiting for Louis to give him the go ahead to leave – but the thought was more affectionate than the disparaging opinion it would have been mere hours ago.

Satisfied, Louis flicked the camera off and turned to tell Harry he’s free to go when he noticed that Harry had occupied himself by looking through a very familiar folder. He had startled and looked up when Louis had cut himself off, barely managing an “Okay, Ha-” before he’d frozen.

Now Harry stood, sheepish and flustered, trying to force out an explanation Louis wasn’t interested in hearing.

“Louis, I- I just…one of the photos had fallen out and I saw it and just went to put it back before it got damaged and I- they’re beautiful, Lou.”

And Louis could have blown off empty apologies and excuses, even unrepentant nosiness, but the sheer earnestness and sincerity which radiated from Harry as he spoke those final three words, while still holding the folder of Louis’ own photos; that he didn’t know how to deal with.

“They are yours, aren’t they?”

“I- yeah. They are.”

And Louis didn’t know why Harry’s apparent approval had any effect on him, because he knew his photography was good, he had been hearing almost nothing but praise for his work for years now, from people who were advanced in the field. Had heard nothing but positive criticism and assurances that he would go far. So why did the opinion of a gangly eighteen year old bubblegum popstar matter to him?

“Thought so,” and Harry’s little smile to himself shouldn’t be making his stomach ache either, “I am sorry I looked through it without asking though. Maybe I could make it up to you?”

Louis tried to maintain his usual nonchalance as he tipped his head and raised an eyebrow.

“You reckon? It’d have to be pretty good…”

“Howaboutdinnerwithme?” the words were blurted out at what was – from Louis’ experience so far – top speed for Harry, and he actually ducked his head as he spoke them, shaking his hair into his eyes.

And shit. Because Louis got it now, alright? He got it. Why girls up and down the country wanted in this guy’s pants. Hell, Louis’ trousers were pretty much half off already and Harry had barely managed to invite him out to dinner coherently.

That fact didn’t stop Louis from dragging out his response though, taking his time to pull on his cream jumper (which thank  _god_  the spilled tea had managed to avoid that morning) before wandering leisurely back over to Harry and tugging the folder out of his hands to tuck under his arm.

“Well, Curly, I suppose that will be a start at any rate.”

Harry’s green eyes (still startling to Louis and his heart rate) lit up.

“Really? I mean, okay, yeah good. I, um, just have to go get changed, give these back to wardrobe. But I’ll meet you back here in five?”

“God the things I do for you, Styles. I’ve only been slaving all afternoon trying to do what I can with this mess,” Louis waved his hands up and down in front of Harry, demonstrating his point, “to make you look pretty. And now I have to-”

“Ta, Lou – five minutes!” Harry was already walking backwards towards the door to his changing room, “Don’t you dare change your mind!”

Louis mumbled something vaguely derogatory at Harry’s retreating back, but as soon as he disappeared through the door, he made a mad rush to finish packing up all the gear. He’d get insane shit from whoever was in here Monday morning if he left the place a state. But he didn’t want to leave Harry waiting either.

In the end, Louis had just leaned back against his desk, trying to look impatient and long-suffering, when Harry reappeared. He was donned in what Louis was fairly certain were the same jeans he had started the shoot in, as well as a worn Ramones shirt. His curls were all contained under a grey beanie, and Louis couldn’t help but think he looked more like a hobo than a singing sensation, even if he knew those trousers probably cost over half his weekly pay-check.

“Bloody hell, Styles, I dunno that they’ll let you in at a restaurant looking like that.”

“I, uh thought we could just grab a bite at this pizza place I know. It’s not far from here, and it’s a little more…low key.”

“I hope you know this is a pretty poor excuse for an apology,” Louis mock-glared at Harry, shaking his head, “you better be a sparkling conversationalist or I’m going to have to come up with other,” he waggled his eyebrows, “ways for you to repay me.”

And Louis pretty much wanted to bite off his own tongue when he realised he’d basically propositioned Harry  _Styles_ , but he also watched as Harry Styles blushed to the roots of his curls, choking a cough into one hand, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to regret it.

Especially when Harry finally recovered and shot him a grin as he gestured for Louis to lead them out of the building.

“Well, my Mum’s always said I talked so slow that if I ever tried to string two sentences together, you’d think I’d died in the gap between them, so…”

Louis couldn’t quite regret it at all.

***

Dinner is enjoyable.

The place Harry had picked out was one Louis had in fact walked past often, occasionally glancing longingly as his stomach rumbled at the delicious scent which wafted out into the street, instead picking up his pace in an attempt to get home to some pot noodles and – _finally_  – a decent cup of tea.

And now that they didn’t have to try and squeeze in the odd sentence between directions and costume changes and the constant click and flash of the camera, they could actually have a proper conversation or five.

Most of what they discussed was insignificant, or at least, it was those small details which don’t necessarily matter in the moment, but which laid down some common ground on which they could then develop…something. Louis wasn’t quite sure what that something was yet, but he also didn’t think he’d be meeting Harry Styles – let alone doing a shoot with him, then accompanying him to dinner  _willingly_ , and actually finding him to be someone he had quite a lot in common with – when he woke up this morning, so he was just going to go with the current with this one.

As they were finishing up with their pasta (which they’d both ended up going for over pizza in the end, at the recommendation of the waitress who had managed to keep her sidelong glances and tittering to a minimum until she was – mostly – out of their earshot) Harry brought up the subject of Louis’ photography again. They’d already skirted around the subject when discussing Louis’ life at university, of living with his two best mates – Liam and Zayn – in a shoebox of a flat which constantly smelled of the lingering scent of Zayn’s paints eking from his and Liam’s room. His stories of the three of them had made Harry laugh and led onto him regaling Louis with the tales of himself and his guitarist, Niall – an Irishman who had been selected to be one of Harry’s guitarists and wound up his closest friend. But they hadn’t really discussed it specifically because well, they’d just spent the entire afternoon seeing what Louis did – even if, really, it wasn’t the same thing at all.

“So, Louis,” Harry leaned back in his seat as he lay his fork down in his empty bowl and rested his hand contentedly over his stomach, “tell me more about this photography of yours.”

Louis couldn’t help rolling his eyes at that, because the way he said it, it really did sound ridiculous.

“Well, Harold, what do you want to know?”

Harry, to give credit where it’s due, stayed silent a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to word his question.

“What is it that you love so much about it?”

He smiled wryly, “How do you know I love it? Maybe I’m just in it for the perks; you don’t just get to meet national pop sensations every day if you’re studying commerce.”

Harry just shook his head, unperturbed by Louis’ non-answer.

“No. You do. You can see it, in your photos. In your art.”

Louis’ heart is pounding a little in his chest, and he doesn’t really want to be so flippant, but it seems to be the only defence he has left against this kid.

“Ooh, art is it now?”

“Yeah,” Harry’s tone is soft, and his gaze steady, setting Louis on fire, “Yeah, it is.”

“I-” Louis looks away, at the empty plates before them and the dark sky outside. His eyes flit to the messenger bag next to him, which holds the folder of draft prints, the photos which Harry had been poring over almost reverentially only a couple hours before. And then back to the boy still sitting patiently opposite him.

“-let me show you.”

***

By some insane luck, Louis’ flat was empty when they arrived. Louis had been bracing himself for the worst; he had tried calling both Liam and Zayn from the restaurant bathroom, to no avail, and he could only hope Harry wouldn’t blame him too thoroughly if they walked in on something particularly traumatising. But it was blessedly silent when they walked through the door, and a small note on the kitchen counter informed him they’d gone out for a date night to the movies and  _there’s a bit of stir fry left in the microwave if you haven’t eaten – even you can’t screw up reheating that_  and in a second set of handwriting  _(not a challenge, Lou! xx)_

Harry was stood over in the lounge part of the room (their flat is really just the one room, with three doors leading off to two small bedrooms and a cramped bathroom; Louis couldn’t help but love it though), staring at a large print hung above the worn couch. It was a portrait, although it barely contained the subject’s entire face; most of the space was taken up by looking up the side of a city building, and  _sky_ , so much sky, nearly free of clouds although not quite. The colour palette was washed out and faded, yet somehow it only seemed to make the sky that much brighter, the smile on the young man’s face that much stronger.

Louis knew the photo backwards and forwards and inside out; he knew where and when and why, and what the joke was which had made his friend’s face light up. He knew everything there was to know about it, so he chose to watch Harry instead; the way his forehead furrowed a little even as a smile played at his lips as he took in the obvious happiness on the subject’s face.

“Who is it?” Harry barely glanced away from the picture to ask the question of Louis before looking back, drinking in the sight of it as if the photo might share its secrets with him.

Louis smiled. “That’s Zayn,” and just because he could, because for some reason it felt important that Harry know these things about his best friends, “I gave that to Liam for his birthday last year. Zayn hates it. Says it ruins his broody artist vibe he’s got going. Liam loves it for the same reason.”

Harry’s grinning properly now and his focus comes back to Louis, turning away from the photo and stepping towards Louis.

“I think I’d like your friends.”

“Yeah?”  _I think they’d like you too._

“Mhmm. Louis?”

“Yeah?” God, Louis needed to figure out how to get out more than repeated monosyllabic answers, but Harry was staring again, and he was currently about two feet away from him, in his  _living room_  and sorry but Louis was just focusing on breathing just at that moment.

“Do you think you’d ever take photos of me like that?”

“I- you’d want that?”

And Harry looked like he sort of wanted to strangle Louis or something because “Yeah, Lou, I would,” he ducked his head briefly and when he brought his eyes back to Louis’, Louis may have forgotten how to breathe for a second, “You’re kind of amazing, you know?”

So of course that was Louis’ cue to jump right back in with a joke.

“I feel like we’re in Titanic or something,” Louis laughed at Harry’s blank expression and threw a hand to his brow dramatically, “ _Ooh, Louis, won’t you photograph me like one of your uni friends?_  Come on; you must see the-”

The rest of the sentence was cut off when Harry all but lunged at Louis and swallowed the last of his words when he brought their lips together with enough force that their teeth clacked awkwardly. But while Louis was still a little in shock at this sequence of events, he wasn’t about to complain.

Harry’s lips were soft and moving in ways which Louis knew he should be able to match in his sleep, but the sensation of which, combined with the feel of Harry’s fingers running down the bumps in Louis’ spine and that of Harry’s curls which Louis’ fingers had somehow managed to  find and latch themselves to – everything combined just overwhelmed Louis’ senses. And when Harry’s tongue swept along the seam of Louis’ lips and into his readily parted mouth, the groan he released seemed to emanate from the very base of Louis’ spine.

When they part, Louis’ thumbs flit along Harry’s cheekbones and he breathes out into the space between them, “You’re kind of amazing, too.”

And this time it was Harry’s turn to be on the back foot, Louis’ turn to distract the startled face in front of him, and really, if anyone should be used to being called amazing at this point it’s probably Harry Styles, yet Louis thought he recognised that look – the one which is confused by the way the same worn out and recycled words can seem like a revelation on another person’s tongue, a specific person’s.

Louis has Harry backed up against the kitchen counter, rucking up the back of his shirt to explore the warm expanse of skin that is his lower back; to dip his fingers below the back of Harry’s waistband and cause him to press himself even closer to Louis, to keen into their open mouths with a hungry neediness which would make Louis smirk if he wasn’t feeling the same.

By the time they break away again, Harry looks thoroughly debauched, and his erection his pressing insistently at Louis’ hip; he’s sure he doesn’t look much better (although, in Louis’ opinion, Harry looks damn fine just now).

“What if we skip the art session for now and skip straight to steaming up the back seat of a vintage car?” Louis pants out.

“You got one of those lying around do you, Lou?” and Harry’s voice is gravelly and even lower than usual as he looks at him with darkened eyes, only a liver of green lining the edges. Louis tries to focus on the words and not the way his fingers are itching to grab a camera and record these moments on film.

“Unfortunately, no,” Louis smirks, “but I do have a bed.”

“Now look who’s skimping out, eh? I guess it’ll do though,” Harry tried to give him a world weary look but it was sort of ruined by the hunger which laced it as he interwove their fingers, “Lead the way.”

Louis obediently started moving them towards his room, keen to get back to it without having to worry about his flatmates barging in on them, but he was tugged to a halt halfway through the door as the link between them went taut. Harry was stopped at the edge of the lounge, free fingers tracing one of Louis’ favourite film cameras, and he met Louis’ questioning look with a smile.

“What if we killed both scenes with one stone?”

Louis fought the impulse to tell him that wasn’t how the saying goes because “Yeah, I- yeah we could do that.”

Harry’s dimple was back out in full force and he dropped Louis’ hand as he picked up the camera and pushed past him into Louis’ room, calling behind him as he went.

“Come on then.”

Yeah, they could definitely do that.

***

When Louis woke up the next morning, the bed is empty and the sheets are cold.

But before he could be too disappointed for something he was sure he should have expected, he’s distracted by the blinking of his phone placed on the corner of his bedside drawers – where he’s fairly sure he didn’t leave it last night.

There were two messages on his phone when he switched it on, from a number stored into his phone as ‘ _Curly :)_ ’. Louis’ face was tugging into a grin before they were even open.

The first had been sent just before eight a.m. – Louis would have been dead to the world at that point, no wonder he hadn’t noticed anything.

_sorry have to go into studio for an interview this morning. dont want 2 wake u x ps hope u dont mind me nicking ur number_

The second was sent only a few minutes after the first.

_um…u might wanna check on liam. he was cooking breakfast or sumat when i was trying to sneak out and…yeah_

_Oh shit._  That was something Louis hadn’t counted on, and Louis  _knew_  Liam knew who Harry was; he watched X-Factor religiously, was the only reason Louis had ever seen Harry sing before. He might’ve even voted for him a couple times, if Louis thought about it. And then another thought hit him. He whipped out his phone and typed out a quick message back to Harry.

_pls tel me he was clothed_

Liam wasn’t exactly overconfident in his body, but he lived with his boyfriend and their mate who probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid if they started fucking on the seat next to him (teasing later would be a different story entirely of course); that and it had been eight on a Saturday morning, and Louis for one could almost be counted on not to surface ‘til mid-afternoon.

Harry’s response came back swiftly.

_uh…pants = clothed right?_

Louis groaned. Excellent. Between the encounter, both parties were probably equally traumatised right now, and Louis was feeling pretty guilty for someone who had been unconscious in the next room when it had occurred.

_sorry sorry! i think i might owe u 1 now. what am i gonna hav 2 do 2 make it up 2 u?_

_so u should b. i can probs think of something…;)_

Louis grinned stupidly at his phone for a minute, trying to figure out whether it would be appropriate to invite him out for drinks and town tonight, or if they could skip the clubbing part and jump straight to sex, when his eyes caught sight of the clock in the corner. Eleven a.m. Meaning Liam had had three hours to freak himself out over his surprise meeting this morning.

With a sigh, Louis sat up and swung himself out of bed, rummaging amongst the clothes which more or less hid the floor to find some fairly clean sweats and a jumper to pull on before he faced his friends.

“Mornin-”

“LOUIS. WHAT THE-”

***

A month later and Harry was making grabby hands at Louis as he walked back into the room, to make him come and sit with him on the couch so that Harry could attach himself like a limpet while the others sat exchanging glances and laughing at them.

Louis had finished his internship at SyCo the previous day, with a glowing recommendation thanks to Harry’s shoot (“ _A touch on the risky side, Tomlinson,_ ” Mr Cowell had told him, coming down to talk to him personally, “ _But it paid off it seems. The magazine loved it; they were disappointed to hear you wouldn’t be around permanently. Unless of course, you would like to turn this into a more long-term arrangement?_ ” Louis had smiled at him and replied, professional but leaving no room for mistake, “ _Thank you sir, I appreciate your offer. But no. Thank you.”_ ). He’d gone out with the boys – Zayn, Liam and Harry, as well as Harry’s mate Niall who, along with Harry, had been quickly adopted into their tight knit circle of friends – for celebratory drinks, getting royally smashed and barely remembering that he couldn’t just make out with his shiny new boyfriend every time he did something particularly hilarious or adorable or sexy (which was pretty much all the time, in Louis’ opinion).

But today, they were all just chilling, crammed into Louis’ flat to watch a movie or three and relax (“ _Recover,”_  Liam said firmly, grimacing as sat down, passing a couple paracetamol to Zayn before swallowing his own. “ _Recovery is for the weak!_ ” Niall crowed from behind the sunglasses he refused to remove even though they were inside, and his half-eaten pie. No-one had dignified him with a response, although Harry kicked him in the ribs from his position further up the couch).

And Louis had something to give Harry today. He held a piece of card behind him, a simple mounting for a photo he had taken of Harry the day they met. There was a small packet of photos in his bag in his room too, which really didn’t need to be brought out in front of the rest of the lads, but this one was something different.

When he presented it to Harry, Louis could see his eyes visibly widen as he breathed out, “ _Lou_.”

He could hear the others moving about, trying to see what it was exactly that Louis had given Harry, but it was only Harry’s response he really cared about.

It was a reasonable sized black and white print – a bit bigger than A4, plus the white stock card which surrounded it – and it showed one of the candid photos Louis had managed to capture that day at the photoshoot.

In it Harry’s stood just to the left of centre, white tee and dark jeans – blazer discarded between set-ups and costume changes – simple and beautiful when hung on Harry’s thin frame. The background is soft and slightly out-of-focus, showing part of the set behind Harry and to his right, lighting stands and pale wall and dark doorways making up the rest. He is standing not quite side on, with his shoulders ever so slightly slumped, hinting at a tiredness from the long day he’d already had. His gaze is directed downwards just a little, staring off into the middle distance absent-mindedly. But his smile is out in full force, and Louis remembers looking at it how it had been in response to Louis telling him to perk up, because  _no one is allowed to look that sombre when they’re privileged enough to be in the presence of_ me _, young Hazza._  And Louis knows that if Harry had turned his head, then that dimple would have been visible – the one that Louis now knows he can dig his pinky finger into and stretch that smile even wider, wide enough that Louis doesn’t know how Harry’s whole face doesn’t split in half the way his heart threatens to do every time Louis sees it transform like that.

Harry pulled Louis down onto the couch, tugging him close to his side so that he can worm his face into Louis’ hair, murmuring a slightly choked, “It’s gorgeous, Lou. Thank-you” just loud enough for it to be private, just for the two of them.

Louis had always liked photographs because they were a reminder of a tiny moment in time – of a place, a person, a  _feeling_ – which you could keep and hold onto and trust in even when you had gone back home, the person left or your memories had begun to fade. They were more durable than so many human things, and Louis used them to document life in a transient world where he couldn’t trust that what he captured would last any longer than the instant it took for the shutter to close.

He had Harry on film now, he’d always have those moments stored in a box somewhere, tucked away for when he could no longer touch, could no longer remember the way he laughed or gripped his hip or was constantly shaking his bloody curls out of his eyes.

But, when it came to the boy who had surrendered Louis’ portrait of him to their friends for inspection, who had enveloped him in an embrace which threatened to cut off Louis’ oxygen supply but which only made his instinct want to grip him tighter. When it came to Harry, that is.

Louis thought that maybe some things could be permanent  
  
 *******

**Author's Note:**

> yay so there's that. also im now 3 1/2 weeks out from exams and i'm going to die from those pretty much so this is probably the last fic you're going to get from me til November :(( i know but you guys do want me to pass right? (don't answer that, my best mate already told me to give up now and just write instead lololol no)


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